War Games
by ArturiaBlackandAmadeaWeasley
Summary: Just another day in the life of Kirk, Spock and McCoy. Once again our trio of friends finds themselves stranded on an alien planet, out-numberd and injured. Will they be able to pull off another miraculous escape or has their luck finally run out?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or any of it's character's, although I do lay claim to the Desmodian tribes (you'll see what I mean later, I swear I'm not crazy…well not that crazy at least.)

I'm fairly new to the Star Trek universe and this is my first story so if you spot any inaccuracies or feel I'm not portraying any of the characters accurately please let me know. I'm here to learn and appreciate any feedback I can get. That said, I hope you enjoy the story. This is only chapter one, so there's plenty more to follow after this.

* * *

><p>McCoy lay still as a corpse on the ground, or rather what was left of it. All around him explosions rocked the earth to it's very core, sending dust and rock spraying all over the Chief Medical Officer and the three men lying sprawled on the ground nearby – Spock, Kirk and Ensign Rick who had been gravely wounded in a prior explosion.<p>

McCoy figured he should be used to such scenarios by now. If life aboard the enterprise had taught him anything after all it was to expect the absolute worst that life had to offer twenty- four-seven and three-sixty-five. Perhaps it was just him but McCoy swore the Enterprise and her Captain in particular had bulls-eyes permanently attached to their beings. Which was just peachy damn' keen by him. Moments like this, McCoy thought wearily to himself, made him wish he'd settled on a small country practice instead. "Damn' Jim and his ability to smooth-talk even a Dravidian slime worm…"

And so once again McCoy and crew found themselves in the middles of absolute chaos – amidst explosions, hail storms of red – hot shrapnel and a horde of aliens who wanted nothing more than their heads on a platter. The only real difference between this and past predicaments were the predators hunting them. The Chiroptera tribe, the most violent tribe of the Desmodians, were a race of humanoid, almost-bat like creatures. Covered from head to toe in course black fur with small, crimson beady eyes, the Desmodians reminded McCoy of the monsters and boogeymen his mother would read him as a child. And all things considered monster was certainly not too strong a word for the creatures. Their lives centered around violence and warfare and thrived on the inherent horrors and gore of battle.

Another explosion nearby sent dust and debris a-fly. McCoy choked on the dust and smoke, could feel his lungs struggling to breath. Vaguely McCoy became aware that Ensign Rick had gone still beside him. The boy's pulse confirmed McCoy's suspicions; Rick was no longer of this earth. "Damn' it," the CMO rasped. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, McCoy found to his dismay that he could no longer see either the Captain or Spock. The dust and debris kicked up in the wake of the explosions made it all but impossible to see.

A knot of dread tied itself in the pit of McCoy's stomach. In all probability neither Jim nor Spock had probably moved from their nearby positions upon the jagged and scorched ground, yet McCoy couldn't help but feel utterly alone. It was as if merely being able to see his Captain and First Officer had provided him with a sense of strength and security and now the he could no longer see the two, that link had been irrefutably severed. Fortunately, McCoy didn't find himself stranded and alone for very long. A slender hand wrapped itself around the CMO's shoulder, strong and firm.

Fearing that one of the native Desmodians must have found him, McCoy did the only thing his dazed mind knew to do – retaliate. He was a doctor, not a warrior but McCoy would be damned before he let one of those alien bastards get their hands on him.

Swinging his medical kit about where he thought the alien's face would be, McCoy let out a ravenous war cry. The medical kit made contact with McCoy's attacker, landing with a satisfying thwack! Hefting his kit back around to have another go at his assailant, McCoy's second strike was stopped short however by a strong, commanding grip. The superior strength of the alien's grasp nearly crushed McCoy's delicate hand. Yelping in pain, McCoy dropped to his knees.

Through a haze of pain and terror, McCoy was faintly aware that the shelling and explosions had stopped, at least for the moment. Whether that was a good or a bad thing the good Doctor neither knew nor cared. All he wanted was for the crushing pain in his hand to cease.

The Desmodian grinned, taking evident pleasure in McCoy's torment. He, it, McCoy's dazed mind wasn't entirely sure if the Desmodians had genders, cackled, increasing the pressure on McCoy's hand. A loud snapping noise announced the breaking of several bones. With a howl of pain McCoy sank even lower towards the ground. If the Desmodian hadn't still had a grip upon his hand, McCoy would undoubtedly have collapsed into an insensible heap upon the ground.

"You humans," the Desmodian hissed in what sounded strangely like Earthen English, "are so weak. With the smallest amount of force your body crumples and breaks. How your species has survived so long I do not know…killing you is much less entertaining than fighting the other tribes. Rest assured however, that my people shall rectify this matter starting with you and your comrades!"

Body still in shock, McCoy could only watch in pained silence as the man-sized bat-like creature reached out with a clawed fist for his other hand. Still the ever stubborn CMO refused to go down without a fight, or at least without giving the Desmodian a piece of his mind. Drawing a heaving breath, McCoy leveled a defiant glare at the Desmodian sufficient enough to stop the creature dead in it's tracks.

"Oh, what's this? Still got a little bit of fight left in you after all I see. Good, good… Then perhaps this hasn't been a complete waste of my time after all."

"Do…Do you even comprehend…what you've just done? The Federation offered your people a…place…among it's ranks. A chance to aide your people…to help them grow…and develop. What you've just done is an open act of war. Not just against my people…but against every planet who is a Federation member as well. You and your people…have just signed your own death warrants."

"Oh, how terrifying," the Desmodian mocked. "Is that supposed to frighten me? Make me quake in my armor? You forget human that my people thrive on war – we have for centuries. It's how we make a living, how we grow and develop. War is our life. Bring on your Federation warships – your glorious armies. We'll see who stands triumphant in the end. Whether it be your people or mine we care not. For we neither fear death nor defeat, merely the end of our lives as we know it…the end of war."

"You…You're insane!"

"My dear human, I weary of this conversation. You've prolonged your death for long enough. Now it's time to die."

A torrent of emotions washed over McCoy as he watched the Desmodian heft it's battle axe into the air, intent upon bringing it down upon McCoy's cranium. Anger, fear, sadness, bitterness. So many emotions he didn't quite know what to do with them all.

So this, McCoy scowled, was how his life was about to come to an end. Stranded on some alien planet light years from Earth and it's comforts, he was about to be axed by a giant freakin' man-bat. After all he'd been through, the years he'd lived both on Earth and abroad, everything amounted to this one moment in time. Just wonderful.

With some bitter irony, McCoy mused how he always had believed that it would be Jim, the reckless and headstrong Captain who bit the dust first. Then again, given the odds both Jim and Spock were already probably dead. In that case, McCoy welcomed death with open arms. Better to go with his friends than live a lifetime without them. As much as they may have annoyed him at times, they were the closest thing to family he had, though he'd never admit it to their faces. Not that he'd get the chance to do that now.

His mind and heart resolved upon the matter McCoy waited for the inevitable death blow to come. When several seconds ticked by and nothing happened however McCoy kept his eyes shut tight. The Desmodian was probably toying with him, trying to get as much sick pleasure out of McCoy as it possibly could before killing him. Well, at the very least McCoy could deny the demented creature this one pleasure.

When a few more seconds passed and McCoy still found himself very much alive; the throbbing pain in his hand attested to this, McCoy began to get mildly irritated. "Well aren't you going to kill me already?"

"Doctor, I fail to see why I should desire to kill you."

That voice - that beautifully stoic, emotionless voice! In any other circumstance McCoy could have been annoyed at the emotionlessness of Spock's voice in light of the carnage and horror surrounding them. Never before had McCoy been happier nor more relieved than now to hear that hollow Vulcan voice. In took every ounce of McCoy's waning resolve and pride as he beheld a dust-covered, battle weary Spock, not to reach out and embrace the Vulcan in a tight hug.

A brief look of concern mingled with fatigue crossed the Vulcan's countenance for an instant, only to be gone the next. "Doctor McCoy, you have been injured."

"Really Mr. Spock, I hadn't noticed…just a broken hand I should think." McCoy winced, taking a good look at his hand for the first time McCoy rather wished he hadn't. His hand looked alien, like some giant black and blue balloon that had at some point been exchanged for his once slender, boney hand. "Thanks to you I didn't lose my head on top of that." McCoy stole a glance at the fallen corpse of the Desmodian and shuddered, the phaser burns on it's back still smoking. "I owe you one, you pointy-eared, green blooded hobgoblin."

"Nonsense Doctor," the Vulcan replied with even measure, "considering all the time you've saved me in the past I believe I still owe you several lives. At any rate, discounting your poor attempt at an insult I believe the correct return would be you're welcome.

It was then that McCoy realized that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. Pushing aside the cold feeling dread that seemed to pool in his stomach, McCoy locked eyes with Spock. "Spock," he breathed, voice just above a whisper, "where's Jim?"

The moment Spock looked away and refused to meet his gaze McCoy knew… "Dear God no… No, no, no…"

"Doctor, the Desmodians have taken the Captain prisoner."

* * *

><p>Sorry this chapter was so McCoy centered. Next chapter will feature a whole lot more Kirk and perhaps even a little more of Spock as well, so stay tuned.<p>

Review if you love tribbles (or even if you don't!)


	2. Chapter 2

Once again, I do not own Star Trek…as much as I wish I did at times.

Sorry for the wait, chapter two took a bit longer than I would have liked it to. I've tried to work in a little more time for editing as well in order to track down those pesky spelling and grammar errors, my long-time foes and the downfall of many a great writer.

As always, I'd like to thank everyone who read chapter one and especially thank Hannah, vegetaworshipper92, challengerspet, Kimberleah, and HannahPullings for their reviews. That said, sit back, relax and enjoy chapter two of War Games.

* * *

><p>When Kirk awoke it was to a world of darkness. Vespertilio was a naturally dark planet; an ideal habitat for creatures of the night such as the Desmodians. Like the bats back on Earth, the Desmodians were sensitive to light. As such, their dwellings typically had no windows, no opening save the single doorway which provided the sole source of entrance and exit to the building. Ironically enough, the buildings themselves were made of roughhewn stone, giving them the appearance and feel of caves. If his situation hadn't been so dire, Kirk might have laughed at the irony of it all.<p>

As it was however, Kirk found nothing humorous at being chained by manacles to the wall of some sort of cave-like dwelling inhabited by blood thirsty man-bat creatures, who in all likelihood were planning on torturing and maiming him as some sort of example to Starfleet command.

With a smile that was more like a grimace Kirk wondered when his life had become akin to the sci-fi, fantasy stories he'd read as a kid. Granted he'd known when he'd taken the job that life in space would undoubtedly be…different. Even so, some of the situations he found himself in were downright strange, even for a Starfleet Captain.

Be that as it may, Kirk refocused his attention on the situation at hand. He could muse later – once he found a way out of this mess. Kirk could only hope that Spock, McCoy, and Ensign Rick hadn't suffered a similar fate to his own and that they were safe, taking refuge somewhere. As far as Kirk could tell he'd been the only one taken, if his bleary memory served him right.

Last he recalled he, Spock, Bones and Ensign Rick had become separated by the thick smoke generated by their battle with the Desmodians. It was then, when they had been their most vulnerable, battle-weary and worn down by the constant bombardment of explosives that the Desmodians had closed in on them.

Flying like demons out of the smog, three of the creatures had converged upon him with near superhuman speed. The first, he had managed to take out with a well-placed blast from his phaser. Before he could even think about using his weapon again however, the remaining two were upon him…

_'With a furious screech and motion of it's massive, clawed hand, the Desmodian batted Kirk's phaser from his hand and grasped the stunned Captain in a chokehold. _

_Sharp claws dug into Kirk's flesh, drawing blood from the wounds they inflicted. Reacting instinctively Kirk clawed wildly at the hand around his neck, his escape attempts growing weaker and weaker as his vision grew darker. Thoughts roved wildly through the Captain's mind – visions of battles won, meals shared, of time spent with Spock, Bones, his crew… Until his whole life it seemed had flashed before his eyes in mere seconds. Defiant to the last, Kirk recalled his weary mind to his current predicament. A person's life was supposed to flash before their eyes before they died, but Kirk would be damned before he'd allow himself to be killed so easily. At the very least, he'd be sure to take a few of the bastards down with him. _

_In a power battle, Kirk knew he was clearly out-matched. If he wanted to live to see his crew, his ship once more, different measures must be called for. With his last ounce of strength, Kirk threw everything his oxygen deprived body had into one final, massive kick._

_Assuming that the Desmodians had a similar anatomical structure to that of the human body, Kirk aimed his blow for the most vulnerable area he could think of. Essentially, he kicked the Desmodian in the human-male equivalent of the gonads. And what do you know, the thing dropped like a sack of potatoes, releasing it's hold on Kirk with a pained screech. _

_Choking and gagging, Kirk's tortured lungs drew in precious air once more. A savage and sudden kick to the stomach knocked the wind from Kirk's body once more, painfully reminding him of the other Desmodian's presence. Not wasting any time, the Desmodian kicked the downed Captain again and again, giving the bloodied man no time to recover._

"_Pitiful weaklings, the whole lot of you!" the creature hissed, even as it delivered yet another blow to Kirk's midsection. "If the Commander didn't want you alive I'd end your pitiful existence right here, right now. To let one such as you continue living, such a scrawny, spineless wretch such as you…I can think of no greater crime."_

_Seeing as he had not been intimidated by the Desmodian's physical advances, Kirk saw no reason to cave into it's words. Offering up the most defiant glare he could muster under the conditions, Kirk's voice practically dripped with venom as he spoke, "And you call me…the spineless…one? As far as I see it…you're the only one here…kicking a downed man."_

_Without even realizing it, the Desmodian flinched, cringing at the raw power those hazel eyes held. Never before had the warrior seen wounded prey look so defiant, so…dangerous. It was as if the human before him would spring up at a moment's notice and slit his throat._

_When the paralytic effect from Kirk's gaze had worn off, warrior pride and rage replaced hesitation and terror. "You may be defiant now but you'll beg before the end human. I vow upon my warrior's pride, I'll break you."_

_In spite of his situation, Kirk couldn't help but give a smug smile in return. He'd heard those words so many times in his short Starfleet career he'd almost built up an immunity to their impact. "I look forward to the challenge, though I fear I may drive you batty long before you break me." In the grand scheme of things, insulting the warmongering Desmodian further probably wasn't his best idea but Kirk simply couldn't resist the urge to throw in a jibe or two. The Desmodian had practically set itself up for that pun after all, the Captain thought with a wry smile. Unfortunately for him however, the Desmodian race didn't take well to jokes…or at least this particular Desmodian didn't._

_Last Kirk had seen before blacking out was the savage scowl on the warrior's face as it drove the butt-end of it's spear home, upside his cranium.' _

And that, the Captain supposed was how he'd been taken prisoner…and wound up in this dungeon of sorts.

Testing the chains shackled to his wrists and ankles with a mighty tug, Kirk stifled a cry of pain. In trying to break free, the chains binding him had only dug into his exposed flesh even more, drawing precious blood with their bite.

"Okay… Obviously not one of my brightest ideas," Kirk grimaced. "Brute force doesn't appear to be the answer; these shackles are way too sturdy for that. So then how…?" As if by magic, the chains themselves provided the solution to the Captain's conundrum and fell to the earthen ground with a heavy clank. "What in the world?" What was going on? Not that he was complaining about being released but it seemed so unlikely that the chains had fallen off of their own accord.

Perhaps this was a trick of sorts? But if the Desmodians already had him captured, why risk the chance of him escaping? Or were they so cocky and self-assured of their own capabilities that it didn't matter? Whatever the case, the whole scenario left an unsettling feeling in Kirk's gut. It was obvious he was being set up for he only knew what and yet given his circumstances Kirk had little choice but to proceed. He had to make it back to Spock and Bones after all to make sure that they were all right and if that meant playing into the enemy's hands then so be it.

Aching joints and muscles begrudgingly cooperated, creaking in protest as Kirk crept along his enclosure. Keeping low to the ground, the weary Captain felt his way with his hands. Making his way through the pitch blackness, Kirk's hand groped onto something cold, jagged and solid – stone, the wall of his prison. "Good, now all I have to do is find the door and I'm home free. Who knows, perhaps my luck will hold and the door will be unlocked too."

Daring to make his way around the cell, Kirk groped the rocky structure high and low in search of his escape route. Several laps around the cell failed to yield the long sought after door and before long even Kirk's stalwart resolve began to waiver. Had he just missed it in his search? Was it a trick door or perhaps a little higher off the ground than he'd expected? The Desmodian's were bat-like creatures after all and possessed wings. Perhaps they could fly too.

A thrill of dread sent shivers down Kirk's spine as realization dawned upon him. If the Desmodians could really fly then that meant… A rare flash of light peaked from behind the clouds and briefly illuminated the tiny cell long enough to confirm the Captain's worst fears. "The only way out is up." Up and up indeed and through a tiny hole at the uppermost recesses of the dungeon, several stories at least above the rocky floor. It seemed as if the Captain's brief streak of fortune had come to an end.

* * *

><p>"Doctor if you would just hold still long enough to set your hand…" Attempting to bind McCoy's hand with the scanty medical supplies that had survived the Desmodian assault in the scanty light of the abandoned bunker complex they were holed up in proved difficult enough without the Doctor's childish antics, making the task at hand more difficult than even Spock could ever have anticipated. With just a trace of bewilderment and wonder, Spock wondered how it was that humans could be so complicated, more so than astrophysics, quantum mechanics and multivariable calculus rolled up into one or anything else he had encountered in his studies or time abroad for that matter. Then again Spock mused, numbers, equations, and theories were all relatively straightforward and unbiased. Easy enough to comprehend if you knew what you were doing and humans were, well…to put it simply, human.<p>

"Ow! Watch it before you finish the job and take my hand off would you!" McCoy snapped, instinctively recoiling his injured hand from Spock's grasp, a rare trace of irritation showing through his usually stoic countenance.

"Doctor," the Vulcan replied with even measure, "while your desire to protect your injured hand is understandable given it's condition I'm afraid your actions are counterproductive to it's recovery. Not to mention if we are to find the Captain, then I fear time may be of the essence."

"Do you think he's still…?" McCoy stopped, unable to finish. He simply couldn't picture a man like Kirk, so vibrant and full of life and Starfleet's venerable Golden Boy, stone cold dead. The very thought was as Spock would say, simply illogical.

"Given the Desmodian's tendencies, I believe that if they meant to kill the Captain then they would have done it outright during their attack as they attempted to do to you," the First Officer replied after a moment's pause. "The fact that they took the Captain alive suggests that they likely have plans for him."

"You mean torture?" McCoy gave an involuntary shudder and not from the cold of the bunker they were hunkered down in.

"It's possible that the Desmodians may decide to use the Captain as an example to Starfleet, which is why it is imperative to find him before they get the chance to do so."

"How long do you think we have?"

"I can't be certain," Spock admitted with some reluctance, "but if my assessment of the Desmodians is correct then I believe that they will try to have some 'fun' with the Captain before making their move."

McCoy frowned, not liking the sound of the word 'fun' at all. Considering that their whole society was based on warfare he could feign imagine what such blood thirsty creatures could possibly consider fun. "So…Do you think you can locate Jim with that Vulcan mind hoo-doo of yours?"

"I'm afraid it's not that simple Doctor. While it's true that the Captain and I share a certain…link, I'm afraid that in this case it will take a little more than Vulcan mind hoo-doo as you put it to find him."

"Great. Well that's just fantastic," McCoy snapped more in frustration that at his companion, running his good hand through his dust and dirt matted hair. "Well, given that the Desmodian factions on this planet aren't exactly on speaking terms with one another then that means Jim should at least be somewhere in the immediate area here. That at least narrows down the area we have to search."

"A logical conclusion," Spock nodded. "Taking what you just said into consideration I believe that the most logical place to begin looking for the Captain will be at the Chiroptera tribe's main village. If they're planning on making an example of the Captain to Starfleet then I'm sure their Commander will want to be the one to do it."

"Their main village, are you out of your Vulcan mind! That place is sure to be crawling with Desmodians!"

"I'm afraid that we have little choice Doctor. And besides, what better place to keep such an important prisoner than in your most heavily guarded village?"

McCoy sighed, knowing full well that Spock, as per usual was right…as he never ceased to be, through he'd never admit it to the pointy-eared hobgoblin. "Well, I don't suppose you've got a plan brewing in that head of yours as well, do you? Or do you propose we go in guns blazing and get this thing over with?"

"I am thinking Doctor," Spock mumbled in reply as if only half listening to McCoy, much to the CMO's infinite frustration.

"Well," McCoy prodded, impatient as ever, "care to share your thoughts?"

"I was just thinking about one of your Earth expressions…and how recent events have proved how accurate it really is."

"Oh? And that is…?"

"That doctors do indeed make the worst patients."

McCoy merely snickered in response. "Oh really? Then you must never have heard our expression regarding Vulcans on that matter."

"Vulcans?" Spock replied, truly puzzled. "I do not believe I am familiar with such an expression."

"That so? Well, in that case I'll make you a deal. I'll tell you the expression as soon as we rescue Jim and get the hell off this festering excuse of a planet. Deal?"

"Fair enough Doctor, but I shall expect a response as soon as the three of us are safely aboard the Enterprise."

"Oh, don't worry," McCoy replied, "you'll get one alright." Turning to hide his smirk from the questioning eyes of his Vulcan companion, it was only then that McCoy noticed the heavy-duty bandage acting as a temporary splint for his hand. Apparently at some point during their conversation, Spock had managed to slip it on without the CMO really noticing at all. Heck, he'd even managed to do a decent job of splinting it.

"Doctor?" Spock queried when he noticed the object of McCoy's gaze. "Is the splint not to your standards?"

"Hmmm? Oh no, that's not it at all. Actually, I was just thinking myself. Have you noticed that the Desmodians around here speak English? I mean, we're light years from Earth and any Federation planet for that matter…"

"I've been thinking about that myself," Spock replied with a thoughtful air. "I highly doubt that it is mere coincidence that led the Desmodians, or at least the Chiroptera tribe to use English as one of their main languages. More likely another Federation ship must have come here in the past and may have mistakenly influenced their culture or language. At any rate that is the least of our worries. First and foremost we must find a way to rescue the Captain and I believe I may just know how."

"Knowing you it just might be crazy enough to work. Okay then Spock, let's have it."

* * *

><p>He didn't know how long he'd been climbing or how far he'd advanced for that matter. Heck, Kirk didn't even know which way was up anymore. In the pitch blackness of the dungeon he was in Kirk had little choice but to put one hand in front of the other. Then again Kirk thought wryly, perhaps it was for the best that he couldn't see a blasted thing. Given his height and location he wasn't sure he wanted to. Never before had the statement ignorance is bliss rung as true for the Captain as it did at that moment, in the pitch black of the Desmodian prison.<p>

So, inch for inch, and foot for foot, Kirk continued his ascent, come what may. To help keep his mind occupied and off of the perilous drop that awaited him lest he lost his grip, Kirk had quickly developed an almost rhythmic pattern of climbing. Moving with precise, cautious movements, Kirk timed his movements until he had them down to a science, moving as if to the beat of some far off song. Right hand, left hand, step. Right hand, left hand, step. Repeat.

Caught up in the rhythm of is ascent, Kirk almost didn't notice a low, muffled noise coming from just below his position on the dungeon wall. At first in fact, he brushed it off, believing the noises to be nothing more than hallucinations induced by an overwrought mind. But there it was again, that soft, rustling noise not unlike the rustling of leather fabric.

Then just as soon as it had appeared, the noise disappeared, only to be replaced by the sound of crumbling rock. Looking to his immediate right where the offending sounds had come from Kirk's mind raced. Kirk swore that he'd thought himself to be the only occupant of the dungeon but in the pitch black of his cell nothing seemed certain.

Scarcely daring to breath, Kirk reached out a tentative hand, slowly, carefully so as to not lose his perch on the craggy cave wall. At the cool feel of rock beneath his hand Kirk let out a sigh of relief. Silently cursing himself for getting worked up over nothing Kirk let out a shaky laugh. Apparently he'd spent a little too much time in this dank prison of his. For the sake of his sanity he needed to get out of here and fast.

That's when he felt it – the feel of a great, furry hand clenching down like a vice upon his right ankle. The talon-like claws dug into his flesh, drawing a warm trickle of blood in their wake.

In the fraction of second, Kirk's world was turned upside down – quite literally. With a guttural laugh, the Desmodian dangled Kirk over the dungeon floor below by his foot, chuckling as it swung him to and fro like a human pendulum.

The Desmodian's hot breath rained down on Kirk's face, carrying with it the scent of stale blood and decay. "Remember me Captain? I swore I'd break you and I'm here to make good on my word. After all, as a Desmodian once my word is given it can't be broken. Did you know…This whole time I've been watching you, mere inches away from you this entire time as you attempted to escape? Quite entertaining really… From here I can see perfectly well how far you've climbed but I'm guessing you're at a complete loss in the dark of our dungeon here. Have no fear though, you're about to find out very soon just how far you've climbed."

The stinging grip on Kirk's ankle was released only to be replaced by the sick sensation of falling. Kirk's stomach continued to do somersaults along with his body as he continued to fall end over end in the endless darkness, into a black pit that had no end.

* * *

><p>My apologies for the cliffhanger ending but I simply couldn't resist…<p>

I'm always looking to improve so please, read and review if you have any suggestions or even if you really just like the story so far.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter three is finally up!

First, I'd just like to give a big thank you to everyone who has kept up with this story so far and to give a special thanks to TeamDKelley, Kayleigh-talitha, HannahPullings, Kimberleah, and Vegetaworshipper92 for your amazing reviews and help with this story so far.

* * *

><p>The battle-ravaged landscape was eerily quiet. Smoke hung over the craters that mottled the landscape like chickenpox, still and stagnant, giving the landscape an almost diseased quality. The evidence of battle, of war, was everywhere, from the smoldering bodies and splintered armor and weapon fragments to the scarred and charcoaled ground. The familiar smell of death, decay, and the coppery tint of blood intermingled with the smog, choking McCoy. Slightly nauseated, he felt red hot bile rise in his throat, bringing a bitter taste into his mouth.<p>

The smell of putricide, of decaying flesh and the grime and grit of battle was nothing new to McCoy. He'd been to enough battlefields and handled enough dead bodies to know what to expect. Being familiar with something and enjoying it however were two totally separate matters and there was absolutely nothing McCoy relished about battle.

Turning his gaze from the deserted battleground, McCoy nearly ran into the back of Spock, who had stopped apparently to survey the desolate killing grounds as McCoy had done only moments before. Wary eyes gazed all around and McCoy had the distinct impression that the Vulcan was looking beyond the mask of death and battle to something beyond, something not quite in his ability to perceive. A subtle chill shot down the good Doctor's spine, from his head to his toes, as if trying to warn him too of the phantom danger that lay behind rolling hills and smog. "Spock," croaked McCoy, not daring to raise his breath above that of a whisper. "What is it?"

"…" No response, the Vulcan merely raised a thin hand in the air as if to silence the doctor, keeping his gaze directly ahead.

McCoy however had never been known for his patience and given how circumstances had frayed his already rail thin nerves, wasn't about to change that fact. Temper flaring along with his voice, McCoy desperately resisted the urge to smack the answer out of the Vulcan. "Damn'it Spock, what do you see?"

"Doctor, I suggest we make ourselves scarce…and-" Whatever Spock had meant to say next was quickly drowned out by the roar of an explosion just overhead, sending a rain of cinders and debris down upon the two Starfleet officers. Fire bloomed like wildflowers all around them and for a brief moment, McCoy wondered if they had died and been cast into the fiery pits of Dante's Inferno themselves.

In a daze, McCoy stood, mesmerized by the dancing of the flames. Vaguely, he could make out black figures running through the smog and hear the screeching of fell voices over the din of the explosions. And then all of a sudden he was moving, being pulled through the fire and flames by a strong, steady arm. Glaring at the Vulcan, McCoy opened his mouth as if to make a snide remark about how he didn't need to be led by the hand like a small child when a sudden and deafening explosion tore them apart.

A white hot light filled McCoy's vision, blinding him even as the percussion from the explosion sent a sharp wave of agony, pulsating from one ear to the other. And just like that everything around him seemed to stop. The sounds of battle ceased to be and the visions of hell incarnate vanished in a white haze. The only things keeping him connected to the world at large; the smell of blood and smoke and the sensation of nearby fires casting an unpleasant warmth against his skin.

With a sickening feeling, McCoy felt himself sailing through the air like some sort of twisted human pinball. And just as soon as his brief reprieve began, it ended. Cold, hard stone met human flesh and bone as McCoy rolled to a stop, his already broken hand screaming in agony. Struggling through the pain to regain his breath, McCoy kept himself as still as possible, squinting his eyes shut as if to block out the waves of agony that rippled like a tide from his hand to his shoulder. The sound of battle returned gradually, muted by a faint ringing in his ears, eliciting a sense of relief from the doctor. As annoying as the ringing was, it was a heck of a lot better than losing his hearing altogether.

The cool feel of stone brought some measure of relief to McCoy's singed skin and – wait a second… Cool stone? What had happened to the heat? To the flames of battle? Daring to open his eyes, McCoy glanced around at his new surroundings. Dusty and old looking crates lay scattered about what appeared to be a long abandoned underground bunker. Over in a far right corner sat a desk, with similar boxes and containers scattered atop it. And about eight feet above him, and apparently where he had fallen through, was a decent-sized hole – the apparent entrance to the underground facility.

McCoy felt the ground shake as a nearby explosion sent dirt flying down the hole and onto his head. The shrieks of the Desmodians, clash of steel, and moans of the dying filtered down to him, reminding him of the peril he and Spock were in.

Spock. McCoy's heart leapt in his throat. Spock had been caught in the explosion with him. Dozens of scenarios flashed like wildfire through McCoy's mind: images of Spock lying broken and bleeding on the battlefield amidst the clash of the Desmodian tribes around him, images of Spock being torn limb from limb by winged demons, stabbed, beaten, mauled... McCoy shuddered, pushing such thoughts from his mind. He had to go back out there, back into the fray and find that green blooded hobgoblin because though he would never admit it to the Vulcan, he cared for him. Just like he did for Jim. Green blooded hobgoblins had a way of growing on a person after all, even snarky old doctors. Either that or McCoy was just growing soft in his old age.

Hauling himself painfully to his feet, McCoy squinted around the small bunker, staggering his way over to the small desk. He'd be damned if he was going back out there without a weapon to defend himself with. Not that he'd probably pose much of a threat to a hulking bat-creature nearly twice his size even with one but it would make him feel a heck of a lot better.

That's when he heard it, the sound of someone, or something dropping with a dull 'thump' into the bunker just behind him. Fear rippled through McCoy, making his heart pound and the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Grabbing the nearest weapon in sight, which in this case happened to be an old metal rod of sorts, McCoy wasted no time and swung the object at his ambusher in a wide arc, only for it to stop short of its intended target in the vice-like grip of –

"Spock!" Letting the rod drop to the ground with a dull clank, McCoy stared in disbelief at the Vulcan for a minute before flashing Spock a rare and genuine smile, clapping him on the shoulder with his good hand. "You green blooded hobgoblin, you're alive!"

Stiffening slightly at such a personal gesture, Spock raised a quizzitive eyebrow. "I would fail to see how I could be anything else Doctor, seeing as how-"

"Really Spock, you are impossible you know that?" McCoy interrupted with a roll of his eyes.

"As you say Doctor," Spock replied with all the patience of an adult trying to reason with an illogical child. "You were not hurt in the explosion or the fall were you?"

McCoy shook his head. "I'll live. Just a few bumps and bruises that I'm sure will feel even lovelier later on. What about you?" McCoy asked, gesturing to what appeared to be a gash on Spock's forehead. "Want me to take a look at that?"

Touching a hand to the cut as if noticing it for the first time Spock gave a slight grimace, his hand coming away with green blood. "It isn't a serious injury Doctor, it can wait. First we need to see about getting ourselves out of here. There's no telling how long this shelter will be able to withstand the explosions from the battle or how long we can remain undetected by the Desmodians."

"You mean they don't even know we're here?"

"Affirmative. You were knocked into this bunker here quite fortuitously before the Desmodians even took to the battlefield."

"I don't know if I'd call getting blown halfway to kingdom come and thrown several feet into a bunker fortuitous but then again I can be quite illogical as you're so fond of reminding me," McCoy chided in response. "But how did you manage to slip past the winged terrors out there? There must be hundreds of them."

"Approximately five hundred or so," Spock agreed with a grave nod. "As for myself, I managed to disguise my presence, using the smoke and the smog as camouflage. While looking for you, I managed to find this shelter and slip into it, undetected. The Desmodians are too busy fighting amongst one another for now to have noticed our presence, but I fear that when the battle ends we may be discovered."

As if to echo the gravity of Spock's words, a rather violent explosion shook the tiny bunker, sending several pounds of dirt cascading on top of the two companions. Coughing and choking on the dirt and dust filled air, McCoy nodded his head. "Alright…Spock, I'm in… Better to risk a shot at freedom than sit around and wait to either be buried alive or skewered by some fuzz-ball with an axe." Not that McCoy particularly relished the thought of stepping back out onto the front lines again, because he sure as hell didn't, but the mere thought of sitting here in uncertainty, with the threat of death by premature burial or by human shishkabob, didn't exactly seem like a delightful prospect either. Not to mention, the Captain was still out there somewhere…or so McCoy hoped. Bending to retrieve his trusty metal rod from where it had fallen under the desk, McCoy froze, his gaze fixed in stunned fascination by an object under the table.

Noticing McCoy's hesitation, Spock cast what passed as a look of mild concern at the good doctor. "Doctor, is something wrong?"

For a moment McCoy couldn't find the words to speak and when he did, they came out in a breathless whisper, barely audible over the din of the battle. "Spock…I think you're going to want to take a look at this."

Raising a questioning brow, Spock knelt down alongside McCoy and glanced under the desk. Immediately, Spock realized the reason for McCoy's disbelief, for lying long-forgotten beneath the unremarkable desk was a small, mechanical object, far beyond the current technological capabilities of the Desmodian race as a whole.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"It would certainly explain a few of our questions from before," Spock mused, picking up the small device and holding it before his scrutinizing gaze.

"How old would you say it is?"

"Judging by it's make I would say it is at least thirty years old, if not more."

Locking eyes with Spock, McCoy asked, "If that's true, then what in the world is an old model, Starfleet issue phasor doing all the way out here?"

* * *

><p><em>The stinging grip on Kirk's ankle was released only to be replaced by the sick sensation of falling. Kirk's stomach continued to do somersaults along with his body as he continued to fall end over end in the endless darkness, into a black pit that had no end…<em>

It was eerily true, Kirk mused wryly, how a five second fall could seem like five lifetimes. It was almost as if all he'd ever known was the sickening sensation of plummeting end over end in a pitch black abyss. How quick a lifetime could seem and how never-ending a death could be. But no, he wasn't dead yet. And he wouldn't be any time soon if he could help it. He was after all James Tiberius Kirk, the verifiable Harry Houdini of Starfleet.

Just when it seemed as if he surely would have to strike bottom at any second, everything stopped. Again, Kirk could feel the painful pressure of the Desmodian's claws as it dangled him by his ankle. Hands dangling below his head, and Kirk felt one hand brush against the cold, grating stone of what he assumed must be the dungeon floor. Inches. He'd been inches from becoming a bloody stain on the cavern floor. Refusing the urge to shudder, Kirk recollected his wits about him and cast what he hoped was a withering glare up at where he thought his captor might be, earning him a gravely laugh in response.

"You can try putting on a high and mighty face all you want Captain but I can hear your heart pounding away in your chest. It's making quite a symphony in there you know."

"And you can taunt me all you want," Kirk spat back, "but it won't make a difference. You can drop me all you want, break every bone in my body, but you won't break me."

"But of course," the Desmodian hissed. Kirk could almost hear the sneer in its voice. "That's what they all say in the beginning before they show themselves for the sniveling dogs that they are. And much as I would love to prove you wrong, I'm afraid that our Commander would like to see you."

Without warning, the Desmodian took off into the air, Kirk still dangling firmly from the creature's grasp. How long the flight lasted Kirk couldn't quite judge, but what he was acutely aware of was how the Desmodian would swing him to and fro in the air, cackling softly as it went. Or how it would occasionally, 'lose' its grip on Kirk's ankle and let him fall a few feet before catching him again.

Through the darkened landscape, Kirk could vaguely make out a dim light in the distance, a beacon in the night. Trying to keep himself focused and to distract himself from the Desmodian's nauseating antics, Kirk pooled all of his will, his last reserves of strength into focusing on that light. In some part of his mind Kirk wondered at the light. On such a dark and dour planet whose sole inhabitants were themselves creatures of darkness, such a simple thing as light seemed so foreign and…out of place. Surely the Desmodians had no need for light? But if that were the case, why then was the light there? Whatever the case, Kirk was certain he would find out, for the Desmodian seemed to be taking him straight towards the source.

The light as it turned out, was a simple fire. Bright enough to light what appeared to be the inside of crude throne room located within another roofless cavern of sorts. From his vantage point in the air, Kirk could make out the forms of a dozen or so heavily armed Desmodians, who eyed him with a combination of hungry eyes and sneers. When he inclined his head to get a better look at the figure on the throne however, the Desmodian carrying him plummeted at an angle towards the ground, tossing him rather roughly into a puddle of grime at the foot of the throne.

Spitting dirt and grime from his mouth, Kirk shook his head, attempting to get his bearings. Before he fully had a change to recover however, a white hot pain seared through Kirk's abdomen as the Desmodian from before kicked at his ribs with a steel-toed boot. "Get to your feet worm!" The creature growled in evident disgust. "Stand up and pay your respects to the Commander!"

"That will be quite enough Durgeth!" Came a harsh and oddly female sounding voice. "I told you to bring him to me unharmed, not toss him about like so much trash!"

"But-"

"I said enough!" The female barked again. "That is unless you want to receive the Punishment."

Kirk wasn't sure if he had hit his head harder than he first thought on that last landing but he swore that when his Desmodian captor, Durgeth, next spoke, there was a slight quaver, a slight hint of fear to his voice. "Yes Commander. It-It won't happen again."

"Good," the woman Commander replied. "Now, I want all of you out of my chamber. I wish to speak with the prisoner in private." Vaguely, Kirk was aware of the shuffling of feet and the clank of armor and weapons as the Desmodian guards made their way out of the chamber, shutting the door behind them with a resounding clang that seemed to echo endlessly off the stone walls. With a sickening sensation, Kirk felt the eyes of the Desmodian Commander upon him and wondered briefly if it was a good or a bad thing that she had demanded to speak to him alone.

Not waiting for an invitation, Kirk rose to his feet, raising his eyes to meet those of the figure seated upon the throne at last. The figure it turned out was that of a human or at least humanoid-looking woman in her fifties or sixties. Crude armor encased her figure and a hefty-looking broad sword hung by her side. Her ice blue eyes met his brown orbs, sending a chill shooting down his spine. Something about those eyes, the general lifelessness, the malice hidden deep within them, filled Kirk with an uneasy feeling of dread.

"You have a strength about you Captain, a certain defiance," the Commander replied with a smile that did not quite reach her lifeless eyes. "That's good. I like that in a man. My, though you do look surprised. I, as you no doubt already assumed am the Commander of the Desmodians. Although back on Earth, I was known as Helen, Helen Connor."

* * *

><p>Sorry about the cliff-hanger ending again but I just love them so much. As always please read and review! I'm always looking for new ways to improve as an author so if you have any commentsideas/suggestions, please let me know. I have some fresh new ideas and hope to have chapter four up soon, so stay tuned.


End file.
